


With Love, Psmith

by soupytwist



Category: Psmith - P. G. Wodehouse
Genre: F/M, M/M, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-17
Updated: 2018-12-17
Packaged: 2019-09-21 13:08:30
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,375
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17044322
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/soupytwist/pseuds/soupytwist
Summary: Being a brief collection of papers from the archives of  Rupert Psmith.





	With Love, Psmith

**Author's Note:**

  * For [spring_gloom](https://archiveofourown.org/users/spring_gloom/gifts).



> Happy Yuletide, spring_gloom! I hope you enjoy this.
> 
> All thanks to my beta readers, who are the reason I was able to dare to write Wodehouse at all.

_MIKE – ALL MEMORY OF FISH FORGOTTEN, WEDDED BLISS AWAITS, I'LL TELL YOU ALL SOON. - PSMITH P.S. EVE, OBVIOUSLY. P.P.S. IF YOU HAVE ANY THOUGHTS OF NOT BEING BEST MAN, BANISH THEM NOW._

 

It is typically assumed that the announcement of one's best friend's upcoming nuptials would be an occasion of at least a moderate amount of happiness. A time for raising a sportive glass and a “jolly good, old fellow, when's the date to be?”, if not necessarily falling onto one's friend's shoulder weeping tears of joy. A marriage is generally held, in short, to be a Good Thing.

This was in fact the impression Mike was intending to give. Psmith's telegram about his wedding to Eve had found Mike, ever the true batsman, ready, willing, and waiting to give the ball a good thwack. Unfortunately, even the most capable batsmen may occasionally come a cropper. On this occasion, the flaw in Mike's approach was that he attempted to smile. Mike's usual smile on receiving happy news was a naturally charming, open grin. What he now managed was rather more like the expression one might make upon opening one's delivery from the grocer's boy to discover that the cabbages are mouldy and the requested carrots have been replaced with winter broccoli.

Phyllis, who was sitting across the breakfast table pouring her morning cup of tea, looked up and saw Mike's face attempting feats beyond its ken. Being an intelligent woman with less than the average amount of dust blowing about in her cranial spaces, she was immediately able to discern what tragic storm had hit her husband. In fact, she had rather expected something like this might occur.

“Darling, you were saying the other day how nice it would be if he got married.”

“Was I?”

This was in fact true. Mike, however, was overcome with a strong sense that what might be a good idea in the hypothetical was not always such a good idea when it was facing one across the breakfast table. The lazy afternoon's musing on how pleasant it might be to go boating as a foursome had transformed into a vivid picture of a Psmith who never spent evenings lounging on Mike's sofa. A Psmith with different views on the kinds of excellent arrangements sometimes made by teenage boys at public schools, arrangements which Mike had innocently been expecting to continue indefinitely. 

This was quickly followed by the image of trying to explain these excellent arrangements to one's wife. It appeared to Mike that few things had ever been either so excellent or so completely incapable being explained. He had not, as it happened, had chance to spend much time with Psmith since his own marriage, and the idea that blissful matrimony might be incompatible with their relations had simply never occurred to him.

He stared at the teapot. Phyllis gave him a concerned look and a kipper. 

“Do you really dislike the idea of his marrying Eve? I know you haven't had much time to get to know each other-”

“Eve? Why, what's wrong with Eve?” Mike paused, halfway through picking up his fork, feeling that there had been something wrong with the words which had just come out of his mouth, but distinctly unclear on what.

“Mike?”

“Mmmm?”

“That's your napkin that you're trying to cut up.”

“Oh.”

It was, perhaps, a blessing that it was at this point Phyllis read her own correspondence from Eve, which included the distracting information that the Jacksons were to become richer by precisely the deposit money they had been looking for. When one is facing an emotional storm, it can be useful to have something with which to distract oneself. Even hypothetical ownership of a medium-sized farm in Lincolnshire is one such something, and Mike found it very effective, for a good five minutes.

–

_...I can't think, darling,_ _what is wrong with Mike. I've spoken to Phyllis about it and she says you're quite right, he is being queer, but as to what the actual matter is, she's just as stumped as we are._  
_I'll be home on the 5pm train – how thrilling to think of Blandings Castle as home!_  
_All my love,_  
_Eve_

 

The sudden indisposition of M Jackson did not go unnoticed by his best friend. As effusive and genuine as Mike's thanks had been, and as ardently as his good wishes had been expressed, Psmith still felt that there was something awry. In the steady rumble of their friendship's cart along the road, he sensed an axle loosening, or possibly an upcoming pothole. Psmith's initial mild, “All right, old chap?” receiving little response from an unusually taciturn Mike, he was forced to turn to other sources of information, viz., his fiancée. Eve, on her visit to the Jacksons the following week, rapidly confirmed that there was indeed Something, as it were, Up, and Psmith's skills in the matter of detection might be required in order to determine What. 

Psmith was not entirely unprepared for this eventuality. He had read a wide range of detective literature, from Holmes to Dupin to Sergeant Blimey Saves The Day. He came up with no fewer than seventeen possible explanations for Mike's conduct, none of which were the one he feared might be true. 

He was saved from actually investing in a false nose and novelty beard (cost 10d, sent return of post on receipt of cash or postal order, exclusively for readers of the Daily Bugle) only by a comment from Eve, over dinner after a Tuesday's work, to the effect that she believed the really modern sleuth simply melted into the background.

“Practically indistinguishable from wallpaper,” she said, cheerily.

“I shall make looking like wallpaper the goal of my every waking moment,” said Psmith, instantly.

“You could try,” said Eve, in a reasonable tone of voice that did not, Psmith felt, adequately reflect the seriousness of the situation. “Or,” she added, “you could try going around just as though the pair of you aren't being ridiculous, and see whether that helps?”

“Do you think that would work?” asked Psmith, thoughtfully. 

“Well, it worked when Phyl and I had to persuade Maud Nutworthy that we weren't sneaking out of our dorms at night back in school.”

“And were you?”

“Of course we were!” Eve pulled a face. “And, all right, the persuasion didn't actually last very long...”

“The dastardly truth revealed,” said Psmith, pleasantly aware that he was definitely affianced to the right woman. 

“You could at least invite him to lunch at the club or something,” said Eve.

This struck Psmith as rather an idea.

–

_Mr and Mrs Halliday cordially invite_  
_MR AND MRS MICHAEL JACKSON_  
_to witness the wedding of their daughter_  
_EVELYN ROSE_  
_to_  
_RUPERT SMITH of SHROPSHIRE_  
_to be held at_  
_SAINT MICHAEL'S CHURCH, MARKET BLANDINGS_  
_on this 21st day of JUNE_

 

The invitation was placed on the letter tray, then hidden in the hat stand, and then moved behind an ornamental vase, in the hopes that it might languish there forever unresolved like the wistful rose. However, a week after its receipt, Mike eventually did send the requisite formal reply – or at least, Phyllis did. 

“You are not missing your _best friend's wedding_ ,” she said, looking unusually fierce for a small and dainty person. “Just think! And after he worked so hard to help _us!_ ”

“I never said I wouldn't go!” protested Mike. 

“No, you just looked like you were about to cry off, probably blaming a dubious oyster. You're best man!”

Mike had had some doubts about this, largely on the basis of the uncomfortable thought that it might not be quite the thing to be best man at a wedding that you really didn't want to attend. However he did, in fact, remember that Psmith had been rather integral to his and Phyllis' elopement, had decided that this meant his hands were tied, and, in the manner of such things rather resented the whole train of reasoning. With this in the back of his mind, Mike answered an invitation from Psmith to lunch with the grim fortitude of a Scott looking at some Antarctic penguins.

Besides, if anybody was going to be Psmith's best man, it was going to be him. 

–

_BOOPY BULLINGS owes RUPERT PSMITH the amount of £1 8d in the event of: MIKE JACKSON CROSSING THE THRESHOLD OF THE WISHBONE CLUB VOLUNTARILY AND OF HIS OWN VOLITION_

 

Psmith had long been a member of certain select clubs. His father might have signed him up to seven clubs in his early manhood, but this had not stopped Psmith from deciding that these did not cater for the entirety of his needful social requirements, and that he would benefit from the convivial company found in a club catering for gentlemen who preferred to spend certain of their time with other gentlemen. Psmith had never believed in narrowing his options when he could expand them, and quickly found he was quite right in this assessment. He was therefore a member of the Wishbone Club. He had often found membership of this discreet establishment in Soho to be a great consolation, and his only disappointment was that he had not been able to persuade Mike to join.

It was, in fact, somewhat of a running joke in that establishment that Mike had never so much as opened the door to leave a message with the doorman. One or two of the more satirical of the membership went so far as to speculate that Mike was a figment of Psmith's imagination.

(“Definitely too good to be true,” Boopy Bullings had said. Boopy was one of Psmith's closer friends among the membership but, Psmith had to admit, might fairly be described as best taken in small doses. )

Psmith had invited Mike to lunch specifically at the Wishbone in the hopes of starting a new and, with luck, even more lascivious period in their friendship. His plan was a beautiful one: find out what was bothering Mike, make some sort of edifying speech, and settle the entire matter in time to drag Mike into one of the private rooms upstairs. Unfortunately, one look at Mike's face when he appeared said that this was not to be. In vain did Psmith wax lyrical about the beauty of properly managed drainage systems – a subject he knew to be dear to Mike's heart. To no avail did he ask Mike about plans for the new farm, about the charms of Lincolnshire, or even the excellent lunch. The more Psmith tried to work the conversation around to the matter of Mike's inner feelings, the more the green beans seemed to droop.

Boopy formally declared it a dead loss, and gave Psmith his £1 8d largely, Psmith felt, out of sympathy.

–

_Bill from Miss Desmoulin's_  
_Cleaning, mending and repair_  
_ITEMS: 1 men's dress shirt (3d)_  
_1 men's dress collar (1d 6p)_  
_TOTAL: 4d 6p_

 

The day of the fateful event dawned. The sun peeped over the rolling hills in its customary manner. Mike and Phyllis had slept well, despite Phyllis's dire warnings that people were always being woken up for strange reasons in the middle of the night in Blandings Castle, and even managed to dress for the wedding with no greater mishap than Phyllis' hair coming down and needing to be re-set. 

They met Psmith in the hall. He raised his monocle affably. Mike and Phyllis said good morning, Phyllis perfectly naturally and Mike in a manner which might have behooved Pheidippides if, after running to deliver the news of the battle of Marathon, he had decided not to keel over but rather asked everyone to talk about something else.

This mild awkwardness went on until the three reached the end of the hall. On the left was a small anteroom with a sofa, which had once probably been a resting place for tired pages or similar. At the current time, it largely featured as a useful place for people to remove coats and wet boots. It was therefore a little surprising when Phyllis gestured her companions towards it.

It was a greater shock when she shut the door on them and promptly turned the key in the lock.

“I'm sorry!” she called through the keyhole. 

“No, you aren't!” called back Mike, hitting the door and giving it a kick for good measure. This did not have any appreciable result.

“Fine, I'm not! But you two are going to stay there until you stop this foolishness!”

“Did I mention I'm getting married today?” said Psmith to the door.

“You've got an hour!” came Phyllis' voice. This was followed by the unmistakable sound of steps retreating down the hall.

Mike kicked the door again.

“Ugh.”

“Perceptive, comrade, as ever,” said Psmith, who had taken a quick look around the small room and promptly sat himself down on the sofa. “I fear we may be outmanoeuvred.”

Mike gave up kicking the door as a bad job and sat down also. “I definitely am.”

“Ohhh, Eve is part of this conspiracy, let me assure you,” said Psmith, lounging as far back as the cramped quarters allowed. “She even muttered something about keys yesterday, but I thought it was to do with the flower arrangements.”

“Oh.” Mike settled further back on the sofa. “So she thinks we've gone mad too.”

“Does Phyllis think we've gone mad?” said Psmith, with interest.

“Well, mostly me,” said Mike.

“Ah.” Psmith paused. “And have you?” 

“I don't think so.” Mike poked the sofa cushions in the manner of a man who knows he has to have a conversation but has mislaid the manual with the helpful diagrams explaining how. “I'm sorry I've been off. I really am awfully happy for you and Eve.”

“Think nothing of it.” Psmith dismissed this with a small wave. "Eve mostly wanted to tell me that while she and Phyllis understood the, ah, delicacy of the situation, their primary concern was that any slight disagreement between ourselves should not have time to fester and poison the more delicate nuances of feeling that-”

At this point, Mike's speech caught up with his brain. “ _What do you mean_ , Eve and Phyllis understood?”

Psmith nodded sagely, as one might who is not sending one's best friend into quiet internal hysterics. “I believe they even have a certain understanding of their own.”

“ _What?_ ”

“Girls' schools are apparently hotbeds of licentiousness. Something of a surprise to me, as it appears it has been to you, if your lower jaw is an accurate indication. Eve even had some rather startling suggestions to make.” Psmith leaned forward confidingly. “I thought that sort of thing was restricted to cheap novels you buy wrapped in brown paper. However I am told that my information is out of date, and arrangements of all sorts are practically _de rigueur._ ” He made a sort of airy gesture. “May I suggest, Comrade Jackson, that this topic would be a productive, if not to mention enjoyable, one for further study?”

“Productive.” Mike had reason to know how his voice sounded when his entire world was being turned on its head, and this was the tone he managed now.

“Well, I intended the word to include at least a certain level of implied prurience, but you should feel free to interpret it in whatever way you will. Provided your interpretation allows for” - here Psmith became perhaps a little awkward - “a continuation of your role as my personal advisor and confidant on terms similar to those previously established.”

Mike had, at various points in his life, been described as less verbose and less erudite than his best friend. He was not naturally one of nature's talkers. The word “taciturn” had been used on more than one occasion. However, he was also a man who was not often at a loss in a tough situation. He was not generally found wanting at the critical moment. And it seemed to him that this was indeed where he found himself: he looked within for the right words, and there they were.

“You ass,” said Mike, and kissed him.

This happy state of affairs continued until the matter of clothing became one of significant concern. No famous sonnets have yet been written about the delicate balance between the urge to be as close as possible to one's chosen amour and the urge to not fall over while removing one's trousers, but if they had, they would have been written in honour of this moment. Poetry has also thus far failed to capture the majesty of Psmith as he suddenly paused, balancing precariously with one hand resting on Mike's waist and the other trying to remove his left sock.

“Mike,” said Psmith, in the tones of one who needs to confess that they have scrounged the last biscuit or paid someone to off their neighbour's wife, “it has come to me, quite suddenly, that I owe you an apology.”

“You do not,” said Mike, poking at Psmith's arm. He was rather impatient to get back to what they'd just been doing, which had been much more fun.

“I do!” insisted Psmith. “The incident may, fortunately, not be seared upon your memory as it is in mine, but back at the dawn of our friendship – why, within minutes of our meeting – I referred to you as homely. I confess it now that I was wrong. I only hope you can find it within the goodness of your heart, in your nobility of spirit, to forgive-”

It turned out Mike was both noble and forgiving. In fact, he was extremely forgiving, to the point of discovering later that he had ripped his shirt. This excellent state of affairs lasted until a loud knock and an even louder cleared throat from Phyllis recalled to them the time. This put a minor crimp in proceedings as they both realised they'd have to run to make it to the ceremony on time. However, no harm was done, and the wedding went off with all due solemnity. No fewer than three aunts commented on how happy the entire wedding party were. 

_

 

_Dear Mother,_

_You asked for an update on the children. Let me assure you that you could not have made a request more dear to my heart. Madeline, Florence, and Augustus all remain, you will be glad to hear, exceptional examples of the excellence of the Smith line. Only yesterday, Augustus demonstrated that he is, at three years old, a true gentleman – he saw that his sister had no cake, and in time-honoured chivalrous fashion rectified this lack. True, he may have decided that the most expeditious method of achieving this admirable aim was to put the cake into Madeline's face himself, but we have discussed this minor disagreement about acceptable means and come to an accord. My paternal bosom swells with pride at the recollection. Eve says they will learn to recite Belloc or the ditty about the owl and the rather unusual feline soon. This seems to me a very pessimistic attitude in my beloved wife; I do not like to see it. I am praying we may be spared._

 

Psmith sat crowned in quiet majesty. His armchair was comfortable, his dressing gown warm, his newspaper at his elbow. He felt that the situation called for a pipe or perhaps a cigar, but moving to acquire these items would have required disturbing the beautiful peace. 

His three children, playing trains on the rug by the fire, continued to screech happily. Mike, who was sat on the floor showing his own small son the difference between a tank engine and a tender engine, grinned up at him. 

“Aren't you going to join us?” Mike waved a slightly sooty finger. Psmith thought fondly that family life was not doing anything for his best friend's sartorial standards.

“Do, papa, do!” cried three small voices from the doorway. 

Psmith considered his own legs, currently stretched out, and his slippered feet, currently resting on a pouf. He considered his cigarette, lounging in its holder. He considered Eve, who was also in the doorway, carrying a tray with what looked like everything necessary for afternoon tea, and Phyllis smiling next to her.

“Perhaps, comrades,” he said, smiling down at the scene. “Perhaps.”


End file.
